


how much to give and how much to take

by WinterAssets



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Prompt Fill, Therapy, Top Steve Rogers, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterAssets/pseuds/WinterAssets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He feels cheap, like some randomly fulfilled fantasy. A fuck and done, and Bucky isn't used to the feeling that creeps through his veins. Even when he was with Hydra he had never felt so used; it's different to have his mind altered than to be rejected by the one person who he's seeking acceptance from the most. Even the squeals and jerks of the subway can't get his mind off of it, and by the time he's in the elevator, his fingers are digging at his skin, trying to form an outlet for it all. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	how much to give and how much to take

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the Tumblr prompt given to me: After Bucky remembers his past, he starts to dress somehow oldfashioned again. It makes Steve's heart ache. But the rest of the Avengers want to dress him up all stylish and fashionable. And Steve hates it but he is too ashamed to tell anybody.
> 
> It kind of got away from the Steve aspect and tied in better with the overall picture. Kind of my proof to myself that I can write 10k and a warm up for the Stucky Big Bang. 
> 
> Titled snagged from the song 'I Found' by Amber Run.

Bucky is thankful for the love and acceptance that the Avengers have given him. It's nothing like he thought it would be; he kind of has a sense of home, a longing that he's felt in his chest since he woke up in the strange, unadulterated clutches of Hydra. It's like he misses the Commandos now that he knows who they were; the first time he went to the exhibit after the Potomac, he had stared for a solid three hours at the statues and their clothing, had spent even more time memorizing himself with the videos. It didn't jar it right away, but it made this feeling brim up in his chest – _that_ Bucky Barnes had fallen off a train, yet he felt as if he owed him and the Commandos his respect. _That_ Bucky was selfless and had a problem following orders, but they had been like a family, and that was something that he had been missing so much that it haunted him when he tried to sleep.

He doesn't go back, not right away. He spends months trailing Steve, trying to remain in the shadows and convince himself that his handlers were going to come, that he was going to be taken back to Hydra and that everything would find its place back in Cryo. His skin still prickles at the mere thought of the icy chamber closing in around him, and it's in the midst of one of those attacks that he runs out from the tree line and straight into Steve on his jog, breathing hard and eyes wide like a trapped animal, shaking uncontrollably. Steve wraps him up in his arms and lets him feel his heated skin, whispering over and over again that he's okay, that Steve has him, that he's not letting him go back on ice any time soon.

Bucky thinks vaguely that maybe he hasn't been doing as good of a job as he thought he was at hiding when Steve reacts like that; it's obvious that Steve knows who it was, knows that he's been watching him and waiting quietly for Bucky to make the move. If Steve made the move, it'd be pushing him. If Bucky came to him, he would be ready to admit to himself that he needed help. Bucky pushes the thoughts away though and allows his body to curl into Steve's, desperate for the contact and warmth and peace from his mind that never knows when to quit.

A solid month after bringing Bucky home, it's like the Avengers have never been without him. He's still recovering – they don't let him out on missions and he bunks down with Steve because Steve is the only one that can control him enough when he has those relapse patterns. Steve always is patient with him and tells him to put the gun down, to uncoil his hand, to breathe and that he's safe. Sometimes Bucky wants to yell at him because it's obvious that _no one_ is safe while he's around and recovering, but Steve just gives him this reassuring smile and Bucky lets his walls fall down a little more because he's just so _tired_ of holding them up.

The problem is – it's not really a _problem_ , he guesses, but it _is_ a gigantic annoyance – is that Tony Stark has say in his credit cards. Which is fine; all of the Avengers have their own money stored away anyway, and Steve's always more than happy to hand his card over to Bucky. The first time he does it he just stares at Steve like he's grown two heads and takes the flimsy plastic, unsure of what to really do with it. Steve spends the afternoon catching him up on the new century of banking, and Bucky scrunches his nose like he really shouldn't have asked.

The problem with _Tony_ and his artificial intelligence program is that they both know everything about the other Avengers. It's not like Bucky considers himself one, not yet anyway, but Jarvis still knows him by heart and greets him in the morning when he's still half asleep and trying to make coffee. Most of the time Jarvis doesn't bother him – really, the program is really polite and tries to guide him when he doesn't want to ask for help. It keeps his secrets well enough and keeps him company when he's lonely; the program just lets him ramble and gives affirmatives when is appropriate, so really, he can't complain much.

His problem lies with Tony, really. Tony and Pepper order all of the Avengers clothes; they arrive in monthly shipments and in their sizes. It's selected from a few different catalogs; Wanda wears Chanel and Victoria's Secret when she's off missions, Natasha wears some Russian brand that he has never heard of, Steve wears mostly fitness brands that are entirely too tight on him (which is a whole _other_ problem), Tony wears any designer brand he can get is hands on, and the list goes on. Bucky's not so much concerned with what the others wear, but what shows up in his closet constantly. It's always filled with polo shirts and tank tops, and on the rare occasion that Pepper actually can sneak a few Henley's in, he's grateful for it. He makes sure to thank her constantly, as she has to order that the left arm of the Henley's be made a few sizes larger; he doesn't want to know what the company must think of her for putting them through so much extra trouble. Pepper just smiles at him and reassures him that everything is fine, that he doesn't have to worry – it's no trouble and it's about his comfort. Natasha also sneaks him in hoodies that are far too large for his frame, but that always wind up fitting his arms perfectly. He doesn't want to know how she does it; he just gives her a grateful smile and she gives him one back.

And it's all okay, really, because it's kind of Tony and Pepper to order them all clothes and make sure that they're comfortable. His problem lies in the fact that he's just not _comfortable_ with the clothing coming in, and can't say anything because he already sees how they rib at Steve for being a dinosaur. It's something that shouldn't embarrass him, really. Button downs were still a thing in this century, but they weren't worn for normal occasions. Most people who wore them were business men or they were used for special gatherings. Plus, the fabric was entirely too expensive, and he didn't want to even _think_ of what kind of brands were out there now that Tony would find him. None of the clothes feel like home to him; they aren't broken in or worn, and it reminds him that he hasn't been here long enough for it to be a thing. He's just barely gotten through a few shirts and broken them in in the wash a few rounds when some more are being delivered and they all start to blend in.

It's making him edgy; he wants something comforting, like the sweatpants that Steve gave him when he brought him back that day that he still hasn't given back. They're tight on his hips; Steve's always had a tinier waist, even in this new, bulked up version of himself. It digs in and the pant legs are too long, covering his feet as he walks. The black fabric is worn in places and it makes it look like a washed out gray at points. But they're comfortable and they smell like Steve; they're worn and they make him feel better, make him feel _safe_. All the new brands, clothes that aren't even worn in for a day….they make Bucky feel more confined to the century and his situation more than ever.

Natasha is the first to notice that he's getting antsy, that he can't sit still no matter how hard he tries. She gives him a light smile and closes her delicate hand around his shoulder, squeezing down firmly as he stares up at her with hard eyes. “Come on, we're going for a drive.”

She must see the hesitance in his eyes because her face goes from neutral to soft, her fingers squeezing much more gently and in reassurance this time. Bucky's still terrified around the edges that they're going to take him away from what he's finally settled into, even though this is where his recovery is best. “We're going where you would like to go, James. Now come on.”

Bucky hesitates for a minute more before he's getting up and sinking further into his hoodie as he presses into his shoes. They feel bulky around his feet and are cutting into all sorts of edges with their angles. Steve insisted on them over the flat shoes that he had been looking at; he said that they were better suited for athletes and running. Bucky doesn't like them at all; they're too sharp and the leather is too confining. But he silently slips them on and follows Natasha to the elevator, where she gives him a light smile and presses the number that leads to the garage.

He's quiet for most of the drive; he hunkers down in his seat and just quietly looks around. Natasha doesn't say much, either, which he's thankful for. It means he doesn't have to give her attention and lets himself rest inside of his head. It's a bad idea; it means later on it's going to be an entire shit show and he knows that. But he keeps quiet, his eyes scanning and his fingers trying not to clutch at the door when Natasha grips the steering wheel and goes ten over the speed limit because she doesn't like the guy in front of her and how slow he's going. She just looks over with a smug smile, then goes back to the normal speed limit while Bucky bulks at her quietly from the passenger seat.

“Steve barely even goes the speed limit,” he murmurs quietly, his fingers gripping at his sweatpants slightly.

Natasha laughs and bites down on her lip, shaking her head slightly. “You haven't seen him drive his motorcycle then.”

Bucky's brows furrow slightly; he should know that Steve has one, logically, but he feels like it's new knowledge that he doesn't like. Those are dangerous and Steve of all people shouldn't be driving them, super serum or not. He makes a point in his head to talk to him about it later, though he has a nagging suspicion that he's going to forget the second he sees him how to be mad or even be crass with him.

Natasha carefully pulls the car to a stop as they come up to a red light. Bucky's eyes glance around for a moment, wincing at the population that comes with New York City. He used to love it; it's his home and he still _wants_ to love it. Just...right now there's so many people, and all Bucky can think about is how he's going to wind up _hurting_ them because there's so many. His eyes carefully move along the buildings, trying to memorize each and every name that's on them in the short amount of time he has before the light turns green. One catches his eye slightly and presses his back into the seat more as he turns to look at Natasha. “What's the Salvation Army?”

The red head carefully raises an eyebrow but shrugs her shoulders. “It's a used clothing store, or really, used anything store. People donate their things to it that they don't want anymore. They sell things for cheap so that anyone really can buy them. Whatever they make off of the items sold goes to their foundations and charity.”

She watches Bucky carefully take in the information before flicking her turn signal on and cutting someone off. The loud beeping echoes around them for a minute before Natasha pulls into the entrance like nothing ever happened. Bucky's still in the middle of processing what kind of store it is and how it's not an _actual_ army when it all happens, his eyes widening and just staring at Natasha as if she's crazy. The assassin merely smiles over at him and parks the car, slipping the keys out of the ignition as if it's nothing at all.

Bucky steps out of the car after her, staring up at the symbol like it actually holds some meaning to him. It does; something in his brain is trying to work against his programming to bring it back out and he feels his chest tighten. He's not sure if it's adrenaline or anxiety in that moment, but he pulls in a careful breath and shuts his eyes, letting it out slowly as the overwhelmed feeling comes back to him. “They didn't...this was a church based thing back in my day. Not so much clothes.”

He remembers that blistering night back in London, biting down on his lips in order to keep his teeth from chattering. He remembers curling up in as tight of a ball as he could to block out the cold, his body worn down from the restless training and missions. The Howlies had been with him that night, exhaustion written across their own faces. He remembers thinking briefly that this is what Steve felt like constantly back home.

“Well it's a clothes type thing in this day and age, you know.” Natasha isn't belittling him at all, she's just straight to the point, which he actually really appreciates. Nodding his head a bit, he starts to walk forward, hearing boot steps echo around him for a moment, crunching on gravel. He freezes, his eyes moving around, but relents quietly to the fact that it's just a memory. It's from that night in London, that much he knows, but he pushes it back and steps through the door that Natasha is holding open for him patiently. He'll resign himself to it later, write down the facts of it so he doesn't forget it again.

Once inside, he follows Natasha around a little lost. Even with the shoes that she's wearing, something called a _sneaker wedge_ , she's still not much taller than the never ending racks of clothes. She hums quietly to herself as she goes through them, lightly pushes them with her fingers and occasionally furrowing her brows if a certain design stumps her. Bucky's unsure of where to actually even go; the store is gigantic and he feels small, so he just sticks close to Natasha as she browses.

Once they get to the men's section, he allows his fingers to come out and carefully push through the materials. He keeps his metal one in his pocket, glove having been forgotten when he left the house. Despite the saying that they would go where he wanted to go, most of the time Bucky just needed some air and a drive; it almost always made him tired, and Steve forever joked that he was like a little kid or a puppy. Bucky has punched him several times because of that, but Steve still grins at him. When he gets extra unruly, Steve hauls him into the car, straps him down with seat belts in the backseat and just drives. Usually around fifteen minutes later, Bucky's passed out, his face pressed into the leather of the seat and far away from the world.

 His lips purse slightly; there's band t-shirts, some weird ones with prints that he makes nearly the same face as Natasha had over, and then he chances along some button ups. They're wrinkled and in only a few different colors, but his mind flickers for a moment as he stares at them. His fingers are hovering over them, not sure if he should touch them, but his mind's tripping back to the days when they were all he wore, suspenders and slacks and all, coming home from the docks with his head and hands aching. He remembers coming in and whipping the suspenders down after a hot summer day, remembers frowning while trying to work the stains out of the shirts from working. Blue eyes are frantically moving over every inch of the material, his breathing coming a little quicker as he does so. He doesn't realize the way his fingers are stroking over the material, looking for something inside of them as it begins to unlock little pieces of him, keys pushing in and wavering as he pulls in a sharp breath.

Natasha is the one who pulls him out of the moment. She smiles at him and plucks out the largest size, humming and splaying it out across the expanse of his chest. She then tucks it over her arm and continues down the line, Bucky's eyes staring at her as he swallows hard and follows. She finds some slacks next, ones that have Bucky biting down on his lip about. They're big and baggy and they're going to hang off his hips, and again, all he can think about is coming home from the docks. Natasha takes one look at his reaction before she's got them over her arm too and hugging them against her chest as she walks. Without a sound, she plucks a pair of suspenders from the wall and moves onto the shoes.

Bucky heads for a worn pair of boots right away. They're scuffed at the toe and there's little cracks in the leather where someone's worn them in, and it makes Bucky's heart pound in his chest. He double checks the sizing before grabbing them as well, looking over at Natasha only for a split second for approval. She gives him a nod and he hugs them close to his chest, following Natasha as she looks at a few more items before heading to the check out counter.

The two of them don't talk about it once they get back to the Tower. Instead, Natasha gets off at her floor and Bucky at his, carefully edging around to the living room of the apartment as he pulls in a soft sigh. He pulls all the items out, chewing at his lip before looking at the laundry shoot. Glancing up at the ceiling, he pulls in a deep breath before admitting that he needs a little bit of help with this all. “Jarvis, can you sanitize this all if I put it in the laundry shoot?”

“Certainly, Mr. Barnes. New additions to your closet, I presume?” The English voice surrounds him, and Bucky can't help but smile a bit at that. It's comforting; it feels like coming _home_ and he's fine with it. Nodding his head, he walks over to the shoot and dumps them in, carefully closing the door and leaning against the wall. He waits while the blue light comes on, and then Jarvis' voice booms around him once more. “They'll be delivered to your closet when they're done, Mr. Barnes. Captain Rogers has told me to inform you once you've gotten home that he is out on a minor mission and will be back tonight. Is there anything I can get you in his absence, sir?”

_'Bring him back home_ ,' Bucky thinks to himself, but he doesn't say it out loud. It's not his place to worry about Steve like that anymore; he was the one who almost killed him, after all. “No thank you, Jarvis. Thank you for informing me and for all of this.”

He knows logically that he doesn't have to thank the program, but he feels a need to. It's like someone's watching over them all and caring for them, and he can see why Tony really loves the program more than he loves anything else. Smiling a bit, he wanders into the bedroom and curls up on Steve's side of the bed, nose tucked safely into the material as he tries to will himself to sleep to the scent of the Captain.

 

_****** _

 

When Bucky wakes up, it's with bleary eyes that really can't adjust to the light and he lets out a soft groan before pillowing his face back into his arm. It doesn't last for long; he can hear the soft clink of the closet door closing in the other room. He feels every instinct in him go on high, and checks the clock to see that he's only been out for two hours. That's not enough for Steve to come back, logically, and he quietly slips out of bed to peer around the corner. He feels foolish the moment he does; Dummy is scooting its way out of the room and back to the elevator.

Letting out a soft groan at his own idiocy, he rubs the sleep from his eyes and heads over to the closet, a certain anticipation drumming in him that he can't contain. It's stupid, really, for him to be this excited about clothes. He was never even this excited back in the day when he'd get new clothes, and those were much rarer than what he chanced upon today. But he pushed forward, because it was rare that Bucky got excited about anything these days. It was a complete and total rarity when he could overcome his own wallowing hole that he allowed himself in to really smile, to really be enamored.

And he absolutely _was_ once he opened his closet and found a nice little cubby hole packed with his new things. Jarvis must've given them instructions, and he glanced at the ceiling thankfully; sometimes it was like Jarvis knew him better than anyone. Biting down on his lip, he tried not to think that over too much. The last computer program who knew everything about him was Zola, and that was a memory that he'd like to forget. Maybe he could slot Jarvis in over the memory somehow. Then there was the business of Steve; nobody on the planet knew him better than Steve, and the guilt began to seep in for even comparing an artificial intelligence program to his utmost devotion.

Shaking his head a bit, he pulled in a careful breath ad reached in, tugging free a white shirt and a pair of slacks. They were simple; a soft khaki color that Steve almost always wore now. His fingers paused for a moment, running over the soft but still slightly scratchy fabric. It made something in his chest tighten, something in his mind jolt ever so slightly. He had to bring in a careful breath not to slip under into the overwhelming feeling once more, and he let his face lightly bury against the fabric in an attempt to hold onto his sanity.

He allowed himself to stay like that for few moments before he breathed in and then exhaled, pulling himself back together. Sometimes it was all he needed to do when it got overwhelming. Other times, when it became too much to handle, Bucky got that urge to run. But Steve would stare him down, would slide his hands up his arms and he would feel that familiar prickle of why he _didn't_ want to run again. Sliding his thumbs over the fabric once more, Bucky carefully stood up and began to discard the oversized hoodie in favor of the new shirt.

It was snug around his metal arm, nearly threatening to burst at the seams. It was different from his flesh one; it wasn't like Bucky didn't have biceps – _that_ wasn't a question that needed answering. But it didn't move in the way that his muscles did; it was a solid mass of metal that had been built for bulk and efficiency, not the confinement of clothes around it. It wasn't Hydra's first priority, anyway, so Bucky was stuck with finding ways around it all.

Tony had told him once that he could swap the metal arm, get him a realistic prosthetic that would be more well suited for this kind of thing. Bucky had debated it for a solid five minutes before he shook his head and curled his arm protectively around his waist. It wasn't the most efficient thing for him in the world and it held all the secrets to Hydra, but it was still very much a large part of who he was now. He had had it for so long that it just felt like an extension of him; he wasn't going to give that up in an effort to be normal. When he had told his therapist that, the man had kindly smiled at Bucky and told him he was making progress.

It didn't much feel like progress; it felt like keeping himself safe and secure overall. His therapist just reassured him that that was all that mattered, even if Bucky didn't see it in that moment.

Pulling in a soft breath, he gingerly began to button up the white shirt, feeling the soft fabric against his skin as he let his eyes close for a moment. He kept the first three buttons open; it was a kickback habit that he gladly embraced. Next, he pushed his sweatpants down, taking careful care of them to push them into the cubby hole. This would be for _his_ things, not the things that everyone else deemed was good for him.

The last thing, and the thing that he debated on the most, was the pair of boots neatly pushed up under the small shelf. He didn't know if it'd be an overkill, but his mind was itching for it. He carefully slid them onto his feet, lacing them up in a fashion that he had learned in the army, not the messy version he had learned on the docks. They felt heavy but good; they were worn in on the right places and Bucky bit down on his lip as he tried to suppress the smile that threatened to take over his face.

Heading out of the closet, he ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it away from his face for a moment before he began to rummage through the drawer near the window. It was part of the small desk that was there that Steve had insisted on. A small night lamp rested there as well, and he could see a file was still resting there, waiting for Steve to debrief on it. Curiosity threatened to get the better of him, but he shook his head and pressed it away, instead shoving aside a paper clip box until he found the right one and pulled it free. Sliding it out, he plucked a cigarette from its confines before pushing it back; if Steve even remotely found them, they would be out of the window quicker than Bucky could even breathe. Sam had admittedly bought them for him; it made him feel like a child, but his identity was still compromised and he couldn't help the fact that he can't provide a valid ID for the cashiers. He doesn't get mad at them; they're just doing their job, so he opts to send Sam in instead and gives him the money later. Steve's been trying to get him to kick the habit all his life, and he's pretty sure he thinks he's succeeding when he doesn't see Bucky smoking anymore. Bucky just keeps it to a minimum and normally opens the window, hoping like _fuck_ that Steve's super senses there won't smell it. Chuckling a bit to himself, he slips the lighter out of the box as well before he puts the box back among the rest of the paper clips, in the far back where he knows Steve won't reach.

He keeps it tucked neatly to the palm of his hand as he hums, moving along the apartment and letting his eyes search it. Normally, he searches and tries to find a threat hanging around; it's part of the Soldier that he can't shake yet. Steve tells him constantly that it's okay, that it's fine that he has to search around. He always grabs his shoulders too and smiles, squeezes and looks at Bucky in a way that makes him feel itchy and nervous all over. This time, he's just searching, and he finds what he's searching for when his eyes meet the record player in the corner. He doesn't know why Steve has it, but he doesn't complain either, because vinyl is still one of his absolute favorite things. He finds something that looks like smooth jazz and lowers the needle, relishing in the soft volume that slips along the apartment.

Retreating to the couch, he slowly let his body sink down into the plush leather. Out of all the things in the apartment, the couch was by far his favorite. The leather openly welcomed him and if he looked hard at the other end where his feet rested, he could see the indent of Steve's body. Biting down on his lip, he burrowed down into the plush fabric and lit up the cigarette, bringing it to his lips and taking in a slow inhale. The scent of smoke floated around his head as the nicotine worked into his system, his eyes slipping shut as he let out a slow breath. The smoke curled around his face for a moment before brushing up into the apartment, swirling with the smooth jazz as a soft smile worked onto his features.

It felt..it felt _right_ , like the times hadn't changed, like things were okay and like he could trust the world around him. That wasn't something that came too often for Bucky. Maybe back before the war he had felt that way, and even again when he was actually _in the war_ and _Steve was safe_ , but that was about it. It made him bite down on the filter of the cigarette for a moment, rubbing his fingers against his eyes slightly as he lets out a slow breath. Everything right now made sense; there was no Winter Soldier there, he didn't even exist – there was just James Buchanan Barnes, and that was good enough for him in that moment.

He let himself float; he gave himself over to the scent of smoke, the soft itch of the clothes, the smooth jazz in the corner. He let his surroundings push him into a different state, a state where he was back before the war, back when the only thing he had to worry about was _Steve_ and if he was going to be okay. He remembered those nights far more vivid than he liked to admit; he remembered the reverberating of Steve's lungs as he tried to breathe, the wet coughs when it seemed like that would never be able to happen. They haunted Bucky sometimes when he woke up from a nightmare, his eyes going over to the super soldier sleeping soundly next to him; he'd count his breathes until he would realize what he was doing, running his fingers through his hair and pressing his palms into his eyes until he seen colors.

Bucky leaves himself in that trance; it feels nice, warming, welcoming. He pulls in a sharp breath and lets the tang of the cigarette fill his senses. It's all nice, warm, soft. It makes him hum softly to himself, his foot tapping mindlessly to the jazz that's filling the apartment. He gets so lost in it that he doesn't hear the elevator doors open, doesn't hear the tell tale footsteps of another super soldier entering the premises. He doesn't even hear the soft _thud_ of the tactical gear being dropped down onto the soft, plush carpeting that Tony was _so_ against.

Bucky only is pulled out with a start when a low, husky voice breaks through it all and his eyes go wide like he's been caught doing something wrong. “Buck?”

Blue eyes meet even more blue, and it looks like Steve's been punched in the gut. His face is pinched and he's holding his breath – Bucky notes that he's not breathing because his chest isn't moving, which is probably horrible because he could be taking really shallow ones that he can't detect, he's got to get better at this. Steve's eyes carefully dart along his body, taking in the outfit and the boots and the cigarette dangling from his lips. There's something on Steve's face that Bucky can't even place, and he swallows thickly as he scrambles to get in a somewhat sitting position. “Shit, I didn't know you were going to be home so soon. I'll – I'll put it out.”

Steve walks forward, his eyes still transfixed on Bucky's form. Bucky tries to move but he's pinned by that gaze, that sultry dark gaze that has him swallowing hard. He's not sure he can even _breathe_ let alone function well enough to push his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe like he used to. Steve swallows thickly and straddles Bucky's hips.

Bucky has no idea what's going on and then Steve shifts and _oh_ , _that's_ what's going on. Biting down on his lip, Bucky watches a little helplessly as Steve grabs his cigarette and drops it into the glass of water that still hasn't been taken out into the kitchen. His eyes are running all over Bucky's, desperate and wanting to move forward, a soft form of longing deep in those irises that Bucky feels like he's going to choke on, and then he's nodding because he _knows_ that Steve won't do anything without a form of permission.

Steve closes the gap while he cups his hand around the back of Bucky's neck. He presses his lips tightly to Bucky's for a moment while Bucky's feeling those ever lasting butterflies curve up in his stomach. He's freaking out inside of his own head because he's wanted this for _so_ long, even when he felt like he could _break_ Steve if he even so much as touched him. But then he remembers that _Steve_ is still there, pressing his lips against his and slowly dragging his tongue along his bottom lip. A whine keens up in Bucky's throat and then his mouth is opening, letting Steve in.

He doesn't take any time at all to slip his tongue into Bucky's mouth; he's searching every inch of him and Bucky's never felt more exposed in his entire _life_. He's whimpering as his tongue attempts to roll with Steve's, his head tilting back further as Steve's fingers wind their way into his hair. It's wet and messy and Bucky just wants to stay in it _forever_ because that's what feels _right_. Steve can taste the soft tang of the nicotine, the flair of the smoke, and there's the soft peppermint that's just _Bucky_ and he wants to lose himself in it for as long as he can.

Steve sucks at his bottom lip before he rocks his hips forward carefully, and Bucky moans at the soft contact against him through the new slacks. He shouldn't be this revved up or wanting anything, but Steve's softly rubbing with his thumb behind his ear and Bucky's letting out these low, keening sounds. Steve's rocking his hips fast and hard, and Bucky's gasping, near crying out Steve's name, over and over again as he feels like everything in him is bottoming out. There's this intense pressure in his stomach, a warm tension, and then he's crying out, his head falling back against the arm of the couch as he feels his steady pulse all over his body.

Faintly through the haze of it, the loud sound pumping in his veins, he hears a soft bitten off noise before Steve's pressing his face to Bucky's shoulder. Everything in him is pumping so loudly that he can only hear his own breath, and the weight of Steve's hand around his neck, just sitting there, a promising collar as he swallows against it. Bucky lets his eyes slip closed, lets himself fall into steady, easy breathing in time with Steve's.

 

**_**_ **

 

When Bucky comes to, it's the early morning hour of seven and he's completely alone on the couch. He pulls in a careful breath and tries to move, feeling the familiar ache settle into his bones. Steve is nowhere in sight; it's like Bucky lives here alone, and that alone makes him a little nervous. There's almost always a note on the table saying that he's gone for a run and that there's breakfast in the microwave, but there's none of that today. It makes Bucky feel cold all over; he wants to slip back into whatever happened the night before. That was warm, fuzzy – Bucky had...Bucky had felt _wanted_. He wasn't just that friend from childhood that was in recovery and that Steve felt guilty over. He had felt...felt like he was something _more_ to Steve.

He bit down hard on his lip, swallowing hard as he pulled in a slow breath. Bucky could feel the emotion rising up in his chest before he could stop it, could feel the familiar pinprick behind his eyes as he took in a shuddering breath. That was where he had gone wrong; he was _nothing_ to Steve, nothing but that guilt that needed to be erased. He had read the signs all wrong; of course Steve would hop on him after a mission – he was an adrenaline junkie and was coming down from it all. It had nothing to do with Bucky; he just happened to be there and he wasn't drained to all hell like he normally was.

The reality of it all was that Steve was too good, too pure to want someone like Bucky. Bucky was this...this _monster_ that still had no idea how to actually act with society. He wasn't _good enough_ for Steve; he never had been when he was younger and he wouldn't be now. Shaking his head, he carefully slipped off the couch, feeling the tug at his skin as he did so. He merely breathed through it and headed into the bathroom, dampening a cloth before settling it against his stomach underneath the waistband of his boxers. His eyes darted up as he felt the warm water soothe at his skin, a frown slipping onto his features.

He was still dressed in his get up from the night before, and staring in the mirror before him, he got a sickening feeling. There, in the glass prism, was Bucky from the 1940's. The sharp jaw, the mirth filled eyes, the slightly chapped mark where his cigarette always sat on his bottom lip. The only differences were his muscle mass now, the glaring metal arm, and the fact that his hair hit his shoulders. He searched over the reflection staring back at him, desperate for something that would tell him what to do about this all. His reflection was only as strong as he was and only held the same answers that he knew. Shaking his head, Bucky headed for the shower, hoping that he'd disappear in the fog and put his reflection out of its misery.

 

_****** _

 

Therapy is something that he gladly took on once he joined the Avengers. It was just necessary and Bucky had actually been the one who had suggested it. Pepper had smiled at him and told him that she could get him one of the best – someone who wouldn't judge him for who he was and would keep his secrets private. The therapist had been checked out by Tony, background checked at least five times a week by the engineer, and Bucky had agreed once he was sure that he was cleared. He liked Doctor Rosino enough; he was an older man who looked at him with speculative eyes that bore into his soul. He had this little metal device on his desk that ran on magnets. When Bucky was beyond stressed out, he let him use it, lets him lightly play with it and get lost in the momentum of it. He gives him the time of day because he makes a point not to bat an eye when Bucky goes into tangents, when he feels so strongly that he just speaks his mind and nothing but profanity comes out. He gives him the time of day because when he's _really_ freaking out, he gives him a pill and tells him to take some deep breathes. Bucky has a prescription of Xanax somewhere around the apartment, but he makes a point not to take it – it's a weakness that doesn't need to be seen by anyone but his therapist.

He sits on the couch that's in there; it's a small loveseat and situated on the other side of the desk, but back against the wall. The room itself isn't too big which makes Bucky feel horribly claustrophobic half of the time. His eyes are unfocused, staring past the desk and toward the metal object, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his thoughts stuck on the night before. He feels a shiver crawl up the back of his neck as he tries to breathe deep, tries to erase Steve from his memory because it's what he _has_ to do. Bucky messed up; he's ready to own up to the sick feeling of guilt crawling all over his skin, into his stomach and throat. It makes him feel small and insignificant, and it makes him want to run until his legs give out.

“James?” The soft, imploring voice knocks him out of his thoughts and careful blue eyes trail up to meet Doctor Rosino's. There's nothing but the utmost patience there and Bucky debates telling Tony to pay him more for these sessions because no one should be this calm and collected with an assassin in the room. “You're pretty far away today. That hasn't happened in a couple of weeks; is this a normal relapse or is there something on your mind?”

Bucky debates for a moment. Doctor Rosino is right – when he first began to attend the meetings he was silent with wide eyes that were fixated at any point they could get on. But he'd slowly allowed himself to open up, had given therapy a real shot. This was just...no matter how private Tony promised this was, he wasn't entirely sure he could do this. But it was eating at him, and Rosino is looking at him with that patient look that is telling him it's okay, and Bucky _caves_ because if he doesn't, he's going to implode himself.

“Steve...I...” Bucky takes a moment and breathes frustratedly at himself before he can find the right words. “Steve got back from a mission yesterday and he kissed me. And then we um...we had...we... _it_ happened.”

“It?” Rosino inquired softly, eyebrow raised. Bucky groaned and ran his fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the strands because this shouldn't be this hard. He talked so freely about this all the time when he was on the docks, and when he wanted to get underneath Steve's skin when he had dates. He loved seeing the flush work its way up Steve's neck – he was much too modest to be anyone's cup of tea. “James?”

“Sex,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. Once it was out, his eyes widened and he stared at Rosino who looked equally as surprised. Swallowing thickly, Bucky silently wished that the floor would open and swallow him whole. It would be much more fitting than this. Shaking his head, he let out a short breath and forces himself to focus. “We had our clothes on but it was grinding and getting each other off.”

“I would think you'd be happy about that,” Rosino is looking at him with earnest now, his pad pushed away that he normally took notes on. Bucky resisted giving him a grateful look; he didn't need something like this to be in his records in case the team ever went snooping. “Isn't that what you've been telling me for weeks? Every time you get near him you can't breathe and that you spend extra time in the night pressing close with him for the fact that he calms your nightmares? This...seems like everything you've wanted for a long time. I would think that you'd come in here with a wide smile and your life on track a little bit more. What's changed your feelings?”

“ _Nothing_ has changed my feelings,” Bucky whispers, swallowing thickly and pushing down the emotion. If he doesn't, he's not sure that he's going to be able to actually get through this. “Natasha and I went out for a drive yesterday. We ended up at a thrift shop and I found some things that reminded me of the '40s. Steve went on a mission so I had the apartment to myself. I put the clothes on and put on some music and pulled a cigarette out. It's like..it was a self indulgence, you know? Those things that you're always telling me to do? To just take time and do something that makes me happy? Well Steve came in and I didn't hear him over the music and kind of...kind of the _happy_ place I had put myself in. He just...he came onto me. Full kisses and him starting everything. I woke up and I just...”

Bucky hates this part, because this part is the harsh realization that gets into his chest and closes his throat. Swallowing hard, Bucky rubs his nose against his wrist for a moment, trying to ground himself before the pricks behind his eyes start to become too much. A shuddering sigh leaves his lips as he rubs at them, willing them away as he goes on. “I woke up and I was alone. That's nothing new, really. Steve gets up early and goes on a run and the like. But he always leaves notes and breakfast because I'm still in that mind frame that it's a dream and I relapse. You know I do. So sometimes I need reassurance. None of that...he didn't do any of it today. And he's not on a mission, none of the Avengers are currently. So I headed for a shower and I looked in the mirror and I just...”

The pricks win the fight. He can feel the tears streaking down his face and he hates that he feels this weak, this insignificant because he shouldn't have to anymore. He almost wishes for Pierce and the crew because that was a certified pain. This was something different – this as a pain that was deep in him and that he couldn't get out. He pulls his knees up and presses his face into them, feeling his back shudder as he attempts to breathe, attempts to pull himself back together.

Bucky hates being alone more than he hates being cold; he's spent so much time on the run and so much time on his own, surrounded by strangers, that he can't stand it. And it makes him feel smaller than he's ever felt before to know that Steve, the only person in the world that he can count on, has left him alone. Maybe Steve was running late; there's so many things that could've happened, but it doesn't make the pain leave his chest or make anything feel any amount of better. He just wants _Steve_ and wants him to want him like he did the night prior. He wants to feel Steve's mouth slotted on his, wants to feel like he means something so much more than just being the broken project that everyone's trying to glue back together.

“You think he only did it because you looked the way you did when he met you,” Rosino says softly, always able to tap into his thoughts when he can't come to say them out loud. There's a soft sadness behind his words; he's gotten close to Bucky as of late and while he knows it's dangerous for a patient and a therapist to be so close, Bucky appreciates the empathy more than he'll ever know. “You think he just was seeing the old Bucky and wanting his chance that he never got. He got it and now he's got his fulfillment while you want something more. Have you thought about talking to him about how you feel, James?”

Bucky swallows hard and shakes his head; talking was never his strong suit. He always let emotion take over entirely too quickly, and he was already cussing himself out mentally for crying in his therapists office about a boy like he was some sort of teenager pining over the prom queen. He shook his head a bit to himself before propping his chin on his knees. He doesn't want to talk anymore; his throat hurts along with his eyes, and there's a pounding that's starting to form in his had. Rosino just gives him a small smile, one that says they're out of time, and Bucky doesn't even argue for more and flaunt Tony's money.

 

**_**_ **

 

He mulls over Rosino's advice the entire way back to the Tower. He takes the subway, something he rarely ever does, and grips onto the metal rail hard to keep himself from jostling too many people. His metal arm is tucked carefully to his body, and it takes everything in Bucky's strength not to snap at the boy who's sitting in the seat next to him, gaping at him like he's some sort of legend. Bucky supposes he's seen the monument in DC and he immediately wants it taken down; he's no hero and no legend, and he doesn't want to be treated as such. He's not good enough to have fans – all he's assisted in was the murders of entirely too many people and that's something that doesn't deserve that gaping stare.

His mind goes back to Steve easily then when he thinks about DC, and it's both a love and hate relationship. His head hurts even more and he tries to focus on the floor instead of everyone around him. The thought runs through him fast and hard that he can't be that Bucky ever again, the one that rests in the museum. He's still Bucky, but he's some broken version, a new version that's risen out of ashes and that he's not sure that Steve's actually going to like this version of him. He seems alright with it up until now, up until he's seen Bucky in older clothes, and he swallows thickly against the thought.

He feels cheap, like some randomly fulfilled fantasy. A fuck and done, and Bucky isn't used to the feeling that creeps through his veins. Even when he was with Hydra he had never felt so used; it's different to have his mind altered than to be rejected by the one person who he's seeking acceptance from the most. Even the squeals and jerks of the subway can't get his mind off of it, and by the time he's in the elevator, his fingers are digging at his skin, trying to form an outlet for it all.

Sudden movement drags his attention back though, watching with wide eyes as Steve practically stumbles over the table, staring at him with doe eyes that make him feel like he's going to crumble in the foyer of their apartment. The newly done up soldier doesn't look much different from his old self in that moment, and Bucky wants to smile because _that_ is something that's more familiar than he wants to admit.

“Bucky,” it's a soft, breathless whisper and Bucky feels like he's crawling inside of his skin again. He doesn't know what the angle is here, how he should really feel, and he bites down hard on his lip to try and breathe through it all. Steve dares to take a step closer and Bucky hears the whirring of his arm before he feels it; it's a warning sign to back up, but Steve doesn't take it. Steve's not ready to back down, and it makes something in Bucky want to collapse because _that_ is the Steve Rogers that he knows. “About last night – ”

“Don't waste your breath,” he mumbles under his breath, his body moving past Steve's, allowing his shoulder to collide roughly on the way. He's digging through the drawer before he realizes what he's doing, pulling out a cigarette and the lighter, pushing the window open before perching on the sill. It's not big enough for him and his leg dangles, but he can sit here and not have to look at Steve, and the nicotine will calm him down. He holds the cigarette between his lips as he lights it, taking a large inhale and slowly exhaling the smoke around him.

Steve's footsteps fall next to him quicker than he was expecting. It means that Steve is adamant about this conversation, that he's not going to get away from it, which makes him cringe. All he wants is to just move away from this because he doesn't want to deal with rejection. He's gotten better than he used to be at it, and he decides that that has to be a small victory to put in his book for Rosino. “Bucky.”

“I said ' _fuck off_ ' or wasn't that clear enough by me trying to blow out your shoulder?” Icy blue eyes slip up to meet confused and slightly hurt blues. He wants to think that it serves him right, but all it does is fill him with guilt because Steve isn't the type of person that should ever be sad. It just makes his puppy dog eyes worse and he groans quietly to himself as he tries to breathe through it all.

“You're not letting me explain,” Steve's voice is clipped around the edges and Bucky wants to laugh because _that_ is more than familiar. He takes that up with Tony a ton when Tony refuses to actually shut up and _listen_ for once in his life. He's used it with Bucky on countless occasions as well.

“Explain what? That I was some fucked up fantasy for you to cross off your list? Because congrats, you got it.” Bucky winces as he exhales again, watching the smoke furl because it's like a shock to his system. Admitting it out loud isn't something that he can do; it's clear as day now as the familiar brimming of hurt starts to slip up into his chest. Steve lets out a groan and Bucky narrows his eyes into unimpressed slits. Steve doesn't get to act like the victim here.

“More like explain that I was overwhelmed because you were finally _happy_. And yes, the clothes were a bonus.” Steve swallows hard as Bucky snorts, carefully pulling in another hit off the cigarette. Steve kneels against his knee, his hand resting against his opposite one that's resting against the window sill. Bucky tries to keep his eyes away and Steve lets him for once. “It was nice seeing you in old time clothes, Buck. You think I like them dressing you up like you're some fashionable monkey? You're not a Prada type of guy, and no matter how many times I try to tell Tony that I'm going to burn the next polo he sends in, he keeps it coming. You looked _happy_ and at _ease_ for the first time since...since before the war.”

It hits Bucky like a ton of bricks and he swallows thickly, swallowing smoke and his pride as he carefully bites down on his lip. He's not sure how to respond to that because it just doesn't sound _true_ to him and it makes everything in him ache. He hates that he can't believe it because Steve is being _sincere_ and he can see that in his eyes. Still, it feels wrong and it makes everything in him surge as he barks out a laugh that startles Steve. “So what, you rut against anyone who looks good and happy? Didn't know that was a thing in this century.”

“You're such a fucking putz,” Steve groans and sits up to his full height. He comes up to Bucky's shoulders, even on his knees, and Bucky bites down on his lip. Steve's hand winds around the back of his neck, keeping his gaze this time. Even if he wasn't, Bucky's not too sure he could ignore it now. “Bucky. I did it because you were _happy_ and because it reminded me of how you used to be, how far you've come. You're still healing. You're still recovering. What I did was wrong. I could've hindered your recovery by miles for my own selfish feelings.”

“Of adrenaline crash, got it.”

“Fucking _hell_ Bucky!” Steve lets out a frustrated sigh and rips the cigarette out of his mouth. He flicks it out the window, not caring where it lands on the street. Instead, he favors grabbing Bucky's face between his hands, blue eyes like liquid fire as Bucky swallows hard. He can feel his jaw contract in Steve's hands and he's desperately trying to hold on firmly to the walls that he's built around him. “I did it because I _love_ you, you oblivious putz. I did it because I've wanted to kiss you for as long as I can remember but you've always been that asshole that's too cool for school and has all the dames on their knees with one look. How the hell was I supposed to compete with that? And then you fell. And I thought I lost every chance. But you're _here_ Buck and you don't under _stand_ how long I've been dying to do that since you've come back.”

Bucky bites down on his lip, swallowing the emotion down as his eyes dart frantically around Steve's. Steve's eyes are a clear blue that hold so much meaning that he's afraid if he thinks on it he'll rewrite the coloring chart. “Why would you want someone like me?”

It's a genuine question, but there's something that breaks in Steve's eyes at the look in Bucky's. He pushes forward and presses his forehead against Bucky's, breathing deep and trying to focus his breathing for a moment. Bucky recognizes it; it's what he does when he's struggling with what he wants to say. “Because from the moment I met you, I knew that you were mine. I don't care how broken you think you are – I'm going to glue you back piece by piece, shard by shard, until you're finally okay again. You're never going to be that Bucky again, and that's okay.”

Bucky's eyes search Steve's face for a moment, and he can feel the familiar burning starting in his throat, nose, and eyes. He watches for a moment as Steve's form starts to get blurry. Steve gives him a small smile before searching his eyes. Bucky wants to resist, to stand his ground, but he's so fucking _tired_ of trying to be someone he's not. He nods his head and just like that, Steve's moving in to mold their lips together.

This one isn't as frantic as the one the night prior; Steve lightly pries his lips open and lets his tongue move along Bucky's, his thumbs gingerly stroking at his cheeks. Bucky keens and gives himself over to it; Steve has this way of getting his heart racing and his head muddling together. He can't make out up from down, where he starts and where Steve ends, but that's how it's always been. Steve's nose lightly nudges up against his, slowly takes him apart with a kiss that makes his knees go weak and has a soft keen leaving the back of his throat. He feels safe for the first time since Hydra's taken him apart, and it's in the protection of the very person he had spent his life trying to protect.

Steve pulls back and smiles, one that's real and small all at the same time. Bucky can feel himself pulling apart at the seams and Steve swims in his vision again. He's met with a broad chest that used to be so small and skinny but now's full of muscle. Swallowing hard, he burrows into the familiar scent, the familiar pleadings of home, and lets himself cry.

He lets himself mourn for the first time; for the fact that his life was taken from him, for the fact that he was reckless and got himself in this predicament, for the fact that he's spent the day doubting Steve. Bucky lets himself _feel_ for the first time, and Steve just whispers how everything is going to be okay and strokes his back.

Steve waits until his sniffles stop being so obnoxious and his back stops shaking to help him up. He leads him to the bedroom, eyes careful and lips soft before he lets Bucky toe his boots off. He pulls back the sheets in an invite that has Bucky collapsing into his chest again, curled up and safe while he feels the havoc of everything catch up with him for the first time in months.

And like they spent so many times before, Steve pulls him close to his chest and presses kisses to his forehead, strokes his hair and whispers soft reassurances like he's a wounded animal. Bucky lets himself fade out to them; they're soft and they make something in him go soft and feel better. Steve just holds on even when he's entirely too heavy, free hand clutching at a metal arm that's whirring and adjusting to the pressure even as Bucky allows himself to sleep properly for the first time in a month.


End file.
